Poison on My Pillow
by Saltandsweat
Summary: **Chapter 6 up!** Is Snape back? (Snape, and my own character. Romance ... hmmm. Possible ;) ... but if there is any it'll be passionate and maybe not orthodox. There is mystery already, though.) Please R&R!
1. Arrival

A/N: Well, here we are with a new story. It may be continued, it depends what the general reaction is.

Summary: Lace Burasque, a former pupil of Hogwarts, is allowed to come back as an assistant to Snape after her mother dies. Neither is happy about this, as the two despise each other, but they both soon realise not all is as it seems …

Disclaimers: I own Lace and her mother, who obviously does not feature much but is still my invention. I also own the idea for this story – yes, I've had influences, but they are many in number and fairly minor.

I know this story could turn out to be quite like It Was the Eyes, if I wanted it to, but I shall endeavour to make sure that does not happen.

And now, on with the story …

Poison on My Pillow Chapter One 

'But why does she have to be female?' Severus Snape complained.

Albus Dumbledore looked mildly surprised. 'Well, if she wasn't female, she wouldn't be a _she_, would she?'

Snape groaned. 'Albus …' He drummed his long fingers threateningly on the desk, then changed his tact and softened his tone. 'I fail to see why you would burden me with a female when a carefully-selected boy would do much better.'

'Oh, it's not just a random choice, Severus, believe me. I do, in face, have someone in mind. Did you by any chance become acquainted with Lace Burasque during her time here?'

Snape slammed his hand down in shock. 'Lace Burasque? _Lace Burasque?_'

The startled expression flitted across Dumbledore's features again. 'You _have_ noticed her, then. I'm glad to hear it.'

'Albus, I could hardly miss her!' Snape regarded the old man for a second, then decided he had given the wrong impression and spoke acidly. 'She's a flirt … a chatterbox.' He shivered in disgust. 'Chatterbox' was one of those 'old chappy' words one immediately associated with Gilderoy Lockhart. 'Truly, Albus, she's like the Weasley twins. But with less class. And she does no work.'

'I assure you, Severus, you'll find her very different as an assistant.'

Snape snorted. It had to be said, Lace Burasque was exquisitely good at Potions. When she turned her hand to it, her Grade Eight poisons could rival some of the best. The problem was that she never _did_ put her hand to it. Someone else's, certainly – the girl had the knack of manipulating people, albeit in a slightly distasteful fashion. But certainly not on her own.

Plus, she had been a Ravenclaw. (For what reason, Snape could not fathom: in his opinion she possessed as much wit and learning as a diseased vegetable.) Not that Snape privately had much against them as a house, but it was generally acknowledged that he preferred his own, and it would certainly look odd if he were to reject the Slytherins. Malfoy would be uncontrollable; rumours would fly around the school like … well, like rumours did. And Albus was suggesting not only that he was incapable of managing on his own, but that he had to take a _Ravenclaw-ess_ as an assistant? He didn't think so.

Dumbledore sighed at Snape's expression. 'Severus … it's difficult … there are other reasons. Her mother has just died, and her business has been broken up and sold off. She doesn't know who her father is, whether he's alive or dead, or … anything. She has nowhere to go now, no other job opportunities. Madam Hooch, who was, as you know, her head of House, floated the idea with me a few weeks ago. She's still only nineteen, a child, really.'

A sliver of pain injected into Snape's chest. He certainly knew how she felt, then. An orphan. His nostrils flared slightly. Lord Voldemort had orphaned him at the age of twelve, and Hogwarts had become his sanctuary the whole time he was at school. After he left, he had lived five years of loneliness, and the Dark Mark was long burned into his skin before he plucked up the courage to contact Dumbledore. If someone had offered him Hogwarts before _that_ … Snape knew he had to give this infuriating girl a chance, if only for her security, especially if she had no one to blame, as he had. Whether he enjoyed the experience or not inevitably followed second.

Dumbledore was watching him carefully, and as Snape looked at him, added: 'Just give her time to find her feet, at least. A year?'

Sigh. 'Fine,' Snape muttered, the memory of his past creasing into irritation. 'Fine, I'll do it. When does she arrive … well, arrive back?'

Dumbledore smiled broadly, smugly. 'This evening, as it happens.'

*****

The lack of a moon that night was strangely noticeable. The lights of Hogwarts infected the countryside for a few miles, but further than that was pure darkness. It was a black such as nightmares make, the very stuff of witching. The stars kept to themselves, and all was still.

*****

Lace Burasque smiled proudly as she let her eyes drift around the entrance hall, finally settling on a darkened corner, where lurked the mystery so potently disturbing the school. She was home. Home to the magical bliss once more.

And no longer as a pupil. She cocked her head slightly, and a piece of faded blonde fell from behind her ear, hung as a testament to her youth. Would it be different, having authority here? Her last year was distant, lazy before her year of work with her mother … and now her mother was gone. She steeled her jaw. She would not cry. Had not … could not. Never.

Still, she had come full circle. Xiomara, the wonderfully gruff old thing, had given her an opportunity there was no refusing. To come back, to teach at her beloved school … well, assist. Even if it was to Professor Snape.

Snape. Ah … there was a problem. She had not got on at all well with him, and he had hated her, for obvious reasons: she had not done a single homework, or even much classwork, during her last years. She'd passed, of course – Ravenclaws always did – but that hadn't stopped Snape's fury at her lack of effort. She snorted quietly, unwilling to make much noise in this cavernous room. As if she'd try at Potions …

And now, she feared, things would be no different.

_Except they will!_ Her mind burst into resolve. She would work this year. She'd changed, hadn't she? She lifted her chin defiantly. She was an adult. And she'd lost her mother. She would fend for herself.

'Miss Burasque.' The cold echo vaulted the air. He was the only one who would not at least pretend to be pleased to have her back. 

She turned slowly, reminding herself to be collected and polite. 'Professor Snape.'

He was taller than she remembered him. And thinner. His eyes were as dark as ever, but they were different, somehow. Respectful. Grave … mourning?

So he knew. Of course … Dumbledore would have told him. Well, she still wasn't going to talk about it, if that was what he'd intended. Not to Snape.

'Your journey was comfortable, I hope?' In the gloom, Lace thought she saw his mouth twitch in distaste. So it was going to be one of _those_ conversations.

She forced her mouth into civility. 'Very much, so, thanks.' Then her lips thinned slyly, and she added: 'You're well, I hope?'

Her small ploy worked: Snape coughed faintly, and hesitated, before replying in a chilled voice: 'Not that it's any of your concern, Miss Burasque, but tolerably so.'

Her high temper flared. 'If I'm to be working with you, Snape, I rather think it is my concern!'

For a while he did not reply, then finally spoke, his voice clear and flat. 'I assure you, Miss Burasque, intimacy is not a priority in this … arrangement. You will kindly restrict your conversation to Potions.'

His evident disdain stung Lace more than she'd expected (she was just a little emotional at the moment, she told herself), but she sunk the impulsive tears back to the corners of her eyes and told him: 'Make no mistake, Snape, this isn't my ideal position either. But – circumstances – must …' She trailed off, and hoped he would catch her drift.

'Ah yes,' he said softly. 'I'm very sorry about your … loss. But I'm afraid that if you are looking for a friend, then you've come to the wrong place. I don't plan to give you the emotional support you need; I don't have the skill. So if you've been deceived, I condole with you immensely.' His words were becoming less convincing by the second. 'You can leave now, if you like.' Somehow he managed to inject expression into these words: he almost sounded hopeful.

Lace was, of course, more than happy to take him up on his offer. Evidently, things were not going to be any different – he was still going to treat her like a student.

_But you knew this might happen,_ her mind taunted. _You even suspected it a few minutes ago. Why are you so very surprised now?_

Lace clenched her jaw in frustration. It was true. She could think of no reason for her astonishment other than some obscure hope that he might respect her suddenly. Oh, the complexities of the human psyche.

But she couldn't leave now. Even if Snape did hate the idea – and the feeling was starting to become mutual - Dumbledore and Hooch had gone to so much effort to help her … were they to be repaid by her contempt? No, she had to stay. Besides, he would think her weak if she left, and after all her resolutions to prove herself, there was no way she could let his opinion of her rest sneering.

'Thank you for the offer, Professor,' she said sweetly, 'but I think I'll choose to stay a little longer than ten minutes, if you don't mind.'

Snape exhaled sharply. He had obviously been holding his breath, and he now just as obviously _did_ mind. _He's not exactly being subtle about it_. But her resolve was augmented by this, a determination to prove Snape wrong, just once.

'I think I should probably go to my rooms now,' she stated. 'It is past midnight, after all, and the students arrive tomorrow.' _Of which, _she added silently, _I am not one._

'Fine,' he replied shortly, and raising a pale hand, snapped his fingers. A green flame flared in the grate behind him, and she moved towards it quickly. 

But he barred her way, his frustrated shout flying off the walls. 'That's to _my_ rooms, you little idiot,' he growled, and then stepped into the fire and vanished.

Immediately Lace was on her own. It seemed that Snape had 'forgotten' that she might not know where her rooms were. Now, at nearly one in the morning, she had the challenge of finding and reaching her rooms. Wearily she began to move towards the steps. Dumbledore's office was the only option.

It was a long process, trying to find her way in the near-dark. Suits of armour appeared a second before she crashed into them, and once, near the Ravenclaw common room, she cringed as she waited for a prefect to investigate. But no one was awake, it seemed. How different from her days here.

It had only been a couple of years since Lace had left, but she had already sensed the changes that the school had undergone. The darkness was greyer than she remembered it, less inviting for trouble, more peaceful. As she made her way slowly along, her eyes grew accustomed to the dark and rested there, happy at finally _being_. She could see fairly well after the first five minutes, and her memory of Hogwarts was enough to guide her gradually in the right direction. 

Still, it was well after half past one when she finally arrived by the waiting gargoyle. 

It sprung aside almost immediately, and Dumbledore's twinkling eyes greeted her, not betraying any of their probable fatigue. 'Lace,' he said brightly. He immediately beckoned her in, and motioned her to sit opposite him at his outsized desk. 'You've just arrived?'

'About an hour and a half ago, yes,' she muttered, hoping he would not catch the annoyance.

The Headmaster looked horrified. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Well, Snape met me in the entrance hall, and we had a tiny … disagreement about the nature of my employment. It must have slipped his mind to tell me where my rooms were before he vanished off to his cosy bed.' Her bitterness showed in her voice, and she flushed. Was she allowed to insult the teachers now?

'Oh dear.' Dumbledore was evidently not surprised, and Lace wondered why he had gone ahead with the idea, if Snape detested it so much. Was it an exercise to test her resilience? Or was it simply for his own amusement? Snape had obviously had much say in it, so what could his motives be?

'He doesn't want me here, does he?' she asked suddenly. It sounded childish, she knew, but she needed Dumbledore to confirm it.

The old man sighed. 'Not really,' he admitted.

Lace nodded. 'He said we weren't to talk about anything but Potions.' She passed a hand over her face. 'I think I'm in for a bad year, Professor.'

Dumbledore waved a hand at her. 'Please, Lace, call me Albus! But … I'll have a word with him, if you like.'

'No, no,' she replied quickly. 'You know my pride wouldn't allow that. It's just … how much chance do I really have?'

Albus raised his eyebrows. 'I think you'll be surprised, Miss Burasque.' He lowered his head, and Lace saw that he was reading a formal-looking document, inches thick. It was a hint, and she had no option but to take it.

'Good night, then,' she said politely, and rose from her seat.

'Good night, my dear,' he said vaguely. Then he looked at her, his expression to all appearances serious excepting a slight spark in his blue eyes. 'Good luck.'

*****

A/N: Well, what do you think? Should I continue? I am aware this idea is not exactly original, but I am planning a twist or two, so perhaps it might not be a complete slump. At least Snape didn't immediately look surprised and shocked and fall in love with her at first sight.


	2. To Be a Druid

A/N: I'm sorry this has taken a long time, but the review from Infanite Bliss kickstarted me into action, when I was dithering, so thanks. Hopefully, since it's the holidays, I'll be able to do a lot more writing.

By the way, if you need a laugh, have you noticed that the initials of the title of this story spell POMP?  Although I think Poison IN my Pillow might have been interesting too … I know. I'm hilarious. *snort*

But on we go. Calm down.

*****

Poison on My Pillow Chapter 2 

When she returned to the stony corridors, Lace found a house elf waiting, who led her firmly to her rooms, assuring her that she should leave her things to be transported by magic. It seemed a long way, and they were well past the fifth floor by the time she finally was led up a spiral staircase to her solid, but irrefutably elegant door.

There were three rooms to her territory: bedroom, bathroom, and living room. They were all bare stone walls, softened a little by hangings and rugs, warm and comfortable, and Lace approved. _Trust Dumbledore to do things properly._

There was a soft whisper of music in the air, gentle harmonies, discordant but perfect. A flute, perhaps, and now a harp … so quiet. At this time in the morning? No … she was imagining it. There … it was gone. A flight of her imagination. For her?

She breathed deeply and knew lavender. 

_And that thou shouldst die, I would have thee feel the lavender on thy lips …_

Bed, now.

Lace was determined to unpack by hand, to manually settle herself into the rooms. But she got no further than taking a few objects from her first bag, neatly arranged on the hearth, when her legs gave way, and she found herself crawling into bed, flicking her wand, and then throwing it onto the chest beside her and submitted to sleep.

*****

Slowly, the night moved on, and the trees trembled as they felt the tension in the ground, and the tight smile of the sun.

*****

It was at the heaviness of the approaching light when Lace woke. She glanced a surprised fleet at the clock. A strange time to be awake. Nor early, nor late. Why?

She sat up cautiously, trying to uncover the reason for her disturbance. All was still … the dusky morn pushed on and welcomed her. Had she been a Druid, she might have known. But instead she waited, breathless without knowing why, and desperate for truth.

Then there was a voice: '… thine inheritance …' It rose steeply from what must have been an inaudible soft, and hissed, was aggressive in its conviction, and then trailed into an undertone, and was gone.

Lace jolted in her bed. She waited until it had fully faded, and then leapt to her right, flinging her hand to her wand.

She did not find it. Instead her fingers rustled sharply on parchment, and she brought a scrap to her face and squinted wide-eyed.

_I am your father._

It had been several hours later, after the impossible reasoning of the receiver, when Lace realised she was without her wand.

*****

Breakfast was gaudy, but calm. The absence of students made the Great Hall pleasantly deserted, and Lace relished being able to hear what she was eating.

Not that she noticed it. Her eyes focused on Dumbledore's face. He would have to know. Theft and intrusion. From an outsider or a resident? She did not know, and was not sure that she cared to. But she knew she had to tell the Headmaster.

Her head flitted imperceptibly around the table. Hooch, Flitwick, MacGonagall, Vector, even Trelawney, Sprout … Lupin was arriving later, reinstated now his treatment was made cure, and Hagrid.

She knew immediately who was missing.

'Headmaster, may I have a word?' She caught him as he was leaving, and added pointedly: 'In private?'

Dumbledore glanced at her in surprise, and then deepened his gaze as he realised she was serious. 'Has something happened, Miss Burasque?'

She smiled faintly. 'You might say.'

*****

With the event recounted to the Headmaster, his eyes were worried. 'So somebody got into your room, took your wand and left you that note? And you heard a voice?'

She nodded, crumpling the piece of paper again in her hand. 'My father's been in my room and stood next to me, and I didn't even know.' The enormity of the event began to infiltrate her consciousness, and helplessly she began to cry. The lamplight blurred and she saw Dumbledore's hazy eyebrows furrow, then squeezed more tears from her own eyes and determined to stop.

'I don't suppose, Lace, that you have considered if it was not your father at all? Some stranger, perhaps, trying to win your … let's say … trust?'

'But I don't!' Lace burst out. 'I don't trust him, at all. He took my wand – I'm powerless now, and it's his fault. I don't care what motives he had. Even if it wasn't my father … or even if it was, I still don't trust him.'

'Have you considered, then, who this mysterious "father" could be?' The blue eyes were steady, neutral, ungiving.

Lace faltered. 'I – well …' She considered briefly. Would she – could she – tell Dumbledore her suspicions about Snape? She did not want to seem ungrateful to accuse him less than a day after she had arrived, but something about his absence from breakfast was definitely wrong.

'Yes?'

'Snape – he -' She studied Dumbledore anxiously, but he did not seem perturbed. In fact, he was smiling.

'I rather thought you might ask about him, Miss Burasque.' The formal address was disconcerting, and she sat up a little straighter to be alert.

But he said no more, unprompted. Lace cast a quick glance to the window and took her gaze away with sunspots. The sunlight was right on her, and although she had not been educated as a Druid or Cleric, she knew what it meant. 'You – you did?'

'Yes.' His smile was amused now. _He's determined to force the initiative to you, Lace, just do it._

'So why _wasn't_ he at breakfast?'

'I'm afraid he's been taken ill. He won't be around until this afternoon, hopefully. If the potion works, I mean.'

Lace nodded. So he was ill. Perhaps she should visit him in the hospital wing, see if he looked guilty … 

'I wouldn't visit him, Lace.' The ancient Headmaster's eyes were stern, even urgent. 'I don't think he'd appreciate it, somehow.'

_How to take this?_ Did he mean that Snape was too ill to be visited? Did he especially not want to see her? Or was it something else?

'Very well, Pro – Albus.' With a start, Lace realised the conversation had been manipulated away from the subject of last night's incident, and she examined the old man suspiciously. What was he hiding? Was he protecting somebody? _Snape?_

She sighed softly, careful not to let Dumbledore see her. There was definitely something wrong here, and Lace knew it easily, having been conned enough times at business. But she also figured that there was nothing more to be discovered from Albus. She would have to turn detective.

'So … what should I do about my wand?'

'I'll look into it,' Dumbledore promised. 'There may be a way to locate it … I'll write to Ollivander immediately. In the meantime, I would advise you to order a sub-wand.'

Another nod seemed to placate him. A sub was a wand that was not in any way connected to its owner, and was less powerful than a real wand. It was, however, better than being altogether without a wand, and as it could be destroyed easily there was little possibility of it being a risk.

The conversation ended fairly naturally after that, and Lace hurried down to the dungeons to reacquaint herself with the firm smoke that always hung there. She was apprehensive, she admitted, having never been in the dungeons by herself, and them such dark passages. She was not in a good mood. 

And now there was the prospect of discovering who her father was, after spending nineteen years in solitude with only her mother. She was uneasy about that, too. What kind of father would steal his daughter's wand? What did he hope to achieve? Lace's wand, after all, would not work for him. But it did leave her without one, and this was the part Lace did not like at all. If the truth escaped her murmuring lips in the descent to the dungeons, it was that she was truly afraid. Afraid for her safety without a wand. And _somebody_, somebody who had her wand, and was not likely to give it back, could get into her room.

With a flourish, she stopped walking, and thrust her heel against the stone floor with a crack. There was _no_ way she was sleeping alone tonight. Or the next, not until her sub-wand arrived. It would be easy to do. She could pretend a leak, and sleep in the Ravenclaw dormitory. Easy.

But if …

The sun was cold outside. What if …

_Oh, that I could read Nature!_ It was at these times that Lace wished she had studied Druids, and had been trained as one. She craved to be outside, sometimes. Craved to be out and revelling in the dew, relishing the air in her lungs and the earth beneath her feet, silently respecting Nature and her forces, speaking a word to have her hair blown by a breeze …

But she was a simple witch. _And that's how I'm going to stay. Mother would never have wanted me to be a Druid._

This was true. Druids had a reputation for being temperamental and erratic, traits Lace hoped she had grown out of. Druids were floating fairies, airy fairy, soft and irritating. But still the excitement and power of being able to read Nature beckoned, and her heart stood still. 

Mother help me, I want to be a floating fairy.

*****

It seemed like a new day when Lace arrived in the dungeons, and waited in the doorway for the permission of the room.

Nothing had changed. It had, she supposed, been only a year since she had really left, but even the drunken splashes of paint she and her friends had inflicted on their last day remained. It surprised her in a way, since Snape was known for fastidious tidiness. One of the lamps was totally plastered in lurid green, and the small amount of light that filtered through was slightly chilling. Lace's hand instinctively moved to her robes for her wand so she could remove the eerie stain, but then cursed herself and tried to blink the pricks of wet away as she remembered she did not have her wand.

Pull yourself together, you child. CHILD.

She was not a child. Never. And so she shook herself and went in properly, and through to the store cupboard, to gaze at the black fumy powers that could ensnare Nature to the wonders of Druids, could ensnare her. She calmed. It was easy, surrounded by drugs. A sip could make her laugh and forget. Easy. 

But she couldn't. And she knew it, and she dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands away from the balmy liquors, and left to order a sub-wand.

*****

A/N: Okay … what do you think? Any guesses about her father's identity? House points to the house of your choice if you can get the right answer … but obviously you won't find out until I write it, so perhaps you'd better review and encourage me to keep going!!

(Actually, even if you couldn't care less who Lace's father is, please review anyway …)


	3. Snape's Return

A/N: Sorry this has been a while, those of you who are following this story. But it's been the holidays, and I've been partying, and also revising for my mock exams, which start tomorrow! Wahey …

I enjoyed Moira McDuff's speculation about the identity of Lace's father, so thank you for that! It's nice to know it's all so unpredictable.

Anyway, on with the story.

*****

POISON ON MY PILLOW 

Chapter 3 

Lace was sensible enough, after her owl left, to find an occupation, and so she had gone to find Hooch to ask her if she wanted to go flying. The aging witch had agreed enthusiastically, and the two of them were soon soaring over the awesome landscape, diving towards the lake, Lace content to feel the speed and let the exhilaration warm her. She could easily admit that she wasn't the best at flying – certainly nothing to Xiomara – but she understood well the excitement of the wind, of defying in and softening, apologising and riding with it. It was as close to nature as she was in her power to be.

After an extremely refreshing few hours, Lace had made arrangements to sleep in the Ravenclaw wing, and made sure she was exhausted enough to go to bed straight from supper. Snape was still ill, surprisingly, although Hooch's eyes were masked when Lace had inquired. Not her as well?

But the vigorous exercise paid off, and so Lace slept, satisfied with her day, and without much time to dwell. A success.

The next morning, she was woken by her owl, Helena, returning with her substitute wand. Lace thanked the bird profusely, and after gripping the wand for a few seconds in comfort, swung her legs over to sit on the edge of the bed. A smile held her lips. Perhaps today would be better.

At breakfast, she was attacked by deja vu as her eyes swept around the table, checking the presences. She sighed – partly with relief, partly dread – when she saw that Snape was back. He nodded at her with forced politeness and let her eyes rest on her face for less than a second before returning them to his plate. No need to return the greeting, then.

Professor Lupin, however, took pity on her, and after throwing an annoyed glance at Snape, motioned to her to sit next to him. 'Did you sleep well?'

'Actually, I did,' she replied honestly, her heart settling a little. Lupin had an air about him that was so comforting, so _normal_ somehow. He gave off the impression of being able to deal with any danger. Lace suppose it was this calm self-assuredness that had made students demand him back, now that he was cured and they still hadn't found a decent DADA teacher.

Their conversation continued naturally, but Lace could not help but be aware of Snape's gaze in the background. He was watching her.

Suddenly, he rose and made to leave, but stopped at her place and waiting until she turned to face him before saying: 'Miss Burasque, we shall be sorting through every potion and ingredient today, so it might be as well to start early. I require your immediate assistance.'

Lace ground her teeth. Had social practice completely escaped him? It was all very well to ask her to be quick, but he obviously expected her to cut her conversation off, throw down her spoon and accompany him. No one was in danger … he could wait. _Two can play your game, Professor._ 'Very well … give me, oh, say ten minutes.'

His eyes flickered in annoyance, but his face remained expressionless. 'As you wish. Ten minutes, then.' He regarded her for a moment more and then strode to the arched exit.

Lupin coughed delicately. 'Not to be rude, Lace, but you are going to be working quite closely with him, so don't annoy him too much.'

'He _will_ respect me, Remus,' she insisted. 'He's going to have to if he expects me to stay.'

He shrugged, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. 'Very admirable aims. But it's your funeral. I learned the first time I met Severus that he didn't take well to being messed with.'

Lace gave him a mock terrified face to make him laugh, then reluctantly she left and made her way down to the dungeons. She was early, but she steeled her shoulders. She could compromise. It took some minutes to get down there, anyway.

The Potions lab was horribly quiet, and Lace, pushing open the heavy door, was struck quickly by the almost deathly atmosphere, and was sure something had happened. She crept forward slowly, then swore under her breath when her foot shrieked on a wooden chair.

Immediately a questioning, amused voice called from the store cupboard. 'Ten minutes?'

'I lost my appetite,' Lace lied. There was no way she was admitting her obedience.

'Evidently.' Then he emerged, face blackened with dust. 'We have to test every potion. Check it's labelled correctly, with the potency grade, and the dosage. Use the obvious tests. Start on that cupboard at the back.' He gestured to the gloomy end of the dungeon, and Lace cold just make out a wooden cabinet in the sooty air.

She searched her mind frantically, eyes darting to the dark and to his face. 'Sir … I …' _The obvious tests?_ 'May I use books to help me? It's – it's a long time since I've done this, and -'

'Use whatever you need, Miss Burasque, if it will improve your efficiency,' he snapped, and then spun and disappeared into the stores.

Lace sighed. _I should have known he'd test me like this,_ and she cursed herself for not revising some of her previous work. If she was going to be an assistant, she would have to know tests and antidotes at a second's thought. In fact, if she were a Druid Potions-Brewer, the instinct would be inborn. She suppressed a groan. Today's work was certainly going to be tedious.

And to add to this, it seemed that Snape was going to be keeping away from her in the store cupboard. Out of guilt, or unease, or simple dislike, her mind could not fathom. But it meant that she could not ask him, or even hint to him, about her father, or her wand, or his absence.

Another sigh, and an irritated cough replied from the stores. 'Fine, I'm moving,' she muttered. _I'm no more than a student. He hates me. I hate him. What am I doing here?_ She dragged down a few heavy reference books from a shelf and lifted them open before venturing into the cabinet.

It was worse than she'd even expected. Several times she had to stop and retreat to breathe because the dust was too thick. When she'd finally emptied the cabinet, nearly fifty bottles stood on the bench beside her, each sheltering a powerful infusion that shimmered with Snape's magic, and many of them fought their corks with fumes. _Test them all, each requiring a different method, and first we have to get past _his_ handwriting._

Suddenly there was a hiss behind her, and she turned to see Snape standing over a cauldron, surrounded by his own menagerie of bottles and jars. 'If you have any poisons, you can use this to test them. I'm sure you've used the Poison-Knower before.'

In fact – and she almost smiled with relief – Lace had used it, working with her mother. A few drops of a poison were added to this colourless potion, and the reaction could be interpreted to find the strength and effects of the poison. Lace was amused to find that Snape was in fact using a table to check the interpretations. Perhaps a lack of a superhuman memory wasn't incompetence.

Anyway, now he was in the same room as her, and the Poison-Knower gave her a chance to get close to him, close enough to talk to him. Quickly she selected some poisons from her collected, each marked with a red circle, and carried them over to the bench next to Snape's. 'I hope you're feeling better, Professor?' she asked pointedly.

Her business eyes caught the minute freezing of muscles before he replied. 'Much better. Madam Pomfrey's skills are noteworthy.'

_Noteworthy?_ She echoed incredulously in her head. _Has he ever _been _in there? The woman's a genius!_

His response, however, confirmed what she had suspected. Snape had not been in the hospital wing. Now she had to tread carefully. She could not give away the fact that she knew he was lying: she had to catch him, thread his lies through a scornful needle. 'I don't know if Dumbledore has acquainted you with the fact that I no longer have a wand?'

This time he did not hide his surprise. 'You don't have a wand?' he repeated.

Lace resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the obviousness of his statement. 'No, I don't. Someone entered my room the night before last and took it.'

'Someone?' He was clearly prompting her.

'Yes, _someone_, Professor,' she retorted. 'I don't know who it was, or I wouldn't be here now. But I do have a sub wand.'

Snape was silent for a moment, and Lace found herself wondering why she had told him. He did not need to know she had no wand. Now he probably thought her careless. Not that she cared, of course.

'So … you simply woke up and found it missing?'

Lace settled for a half-truth. 'Well, something woke me at about four o'clock, but I don't know what it was. It might have been the thief. But I felt for my wand and it wasn't there.'

'There were no clues to hint at the identity of this … thief?' Was he heading very strongly in the guilty direction?

She would have to lie, and she kept her face puzzled. _He doesn't need to know._ 'None, Professor.'

'And is Dumbledore investigating this?'

'Of course he is. I'm really not too worried about it, sir, I'm sure he'll recover it.' She wanted to leave the subject, and Snape was being too questioning for her liking. She always had the impression with Snape that he could read her mind, could tell when she was lying and despised it, knew the truth but wanted to make her utter it.

Snape's eyes snapped to look at her. 'Not worried?' he echoed. 'You should be _very_ worried, you stupid girl, to be without at wand, especially at this time. You're utterly defenceless.' His voice was low, and completely resonant with truth.

Lace's temper flared dangerously at the word 'stupid,' but she forced her teeth to her tongue when she remembered that he _knew_ he thought her thick-witted. So her eyes narrowed with suspicion instead. 'What do you mean, "especially at this time?"'

Snape's own black eyes flicked wildly, briefly, and then he muttered: 'Never mind. But you need your wand, Miss Burasque.'

'I know,' she agreed coldly. 'But I can't do much to recover it at the moment. I'm afraid you'll have to accept my reassurances that I _will_ have it back.' And she made the promise to herself, too. She had a strong will and an agile mind. There was no reason why she could not recover her wand.

They worked for some hours in silence after that, and Lace noticed, watching Snape from the edge of her eye, that he seemed uneasy. His weight shifted between his feet, and more than once he coughed as though to break the tense quiet. Occasionally his eyes drifted across to the flask she was working on, hen to her hand, and moved up her arm, almost to her face, and then he jerked them away again. There was something about her that was making her uncomfortable, and she had a terrible suspicion she knew what it was.

It was when she lifted her watch to her face and saw her hand shaking that she realised she had had no lunch. Her voyeuristic, addictive observation had engrossed her, and the mortal fragrance of the poisons was beginning to make her light-headed. She glanced again at Snape. He was not showing any signs of hunger, and did not even seem to be aware that they had been working for around five hours.

'Professor?' she asked cautiously.

Snape lifted his head and looked at her, and flinched slightly when their eyes met, but he took in her pale skin and shaking limbs. 'Are you hungry?'

She nodded. 'Perhaps we should stop and eat …'

'I was planning to wait until supper,' he told her softly. 'The students arrive tonight – there will be a huge meal in their honour.' He flicked an eyebrow slightly in distaste, and for once Lace felt it too.

Ah, yes. The students. 'Unbridled joy,' she murmured dryly, and was surprised to see Snape's lips thin in amusement.

'Always the highlight of the term,' he agreed, and for a few seconds they shared the humour.

Lace, as it happened, did not actually have much against the students. The experience of being one was still fresh in her mind, and she could sympathise with the turmoil that breezed through the lives of adolescents. But now she was an adult, she could wonder at the stupidity and lack of common sense that infected one's brain at that age.

It was strange, she decided. Their few words could easily lead onto a conversation, a proper dialogue, about whether Snape really _did_ hate the students that much. At the very least, she had the opportunity to ask him some questions. But she did not take it. It wasn't even that she had the feeling he wouldn't answer. She felt that he might, if she was careful. But she simply did not want to know at that time, despite her normally insatiable curiosity.

Besides, she had other things to consider.

'Well, I think I need sustenance,' she said firmly. 'I'll go to the kitchens … I'll be about half an hour eating, I should think.'

'Eat down here,' he ordered quietly, and then immediately cleared his throat and added: 'So you can keep an eye on your cauldron.'

Lace was puzzled. Why would he want her in the same room as him for longer than was absolutely necessary? And what exactly _was_ the meaning of his strange behaviour? It seemed as if he was … watching her, calculating her. But for no obvious reason. Testing her as an assistant? Or was he simply trying to know her as a person? He had certainly seemed embarrassed at actually wanting her in the dungeons. Did he simply want her company?

'Um … if you want,' she said timidly. How was she to act? It was a conundrum, a most persistent conundrum.

_And why_, she mused on her way up the stone steps, _would Severus Snape want to know me?_

*****

A/N: Yes, yes, it's suspense, but I'm sure you'll cope. And by the way, for those who are wondering, there is a very obvious clue to the identity of Lace's father, both to suggest and to disprove … so the clues are there. I warned you.

I have no estimate for the next chapter, although in the end I wrote this one in a few days. It just took a while to get me started. And I _am_ thinking about Bloodlust. I just need to work a few things out about it first, is all.

Thank you to all reviewers, I really do live on reviews, I swear.


	4. Fury

A/N: This story is moving faster now, simply because I'm having exams and I'm not exactly making the most of my revision time … Anyway, c'est la vie and I'm sure I'll live.

Anyway, thanks to all who have reviewed again.

*****

POISON ON MY PILLOW 

Chapter Four 

It was Monday. Monday, and Lace was woken by Snape's voice sharply summoning her. 'Get up, Miss Burasque. Lessons start today.'

Lace jumped. She threw back the covers and leapt for her sub wand, determined that even her supposed respect for Snape would not excuse this invasion. Unfortunately, she could not actually see Snape, so it was slightly difficult to curse him. 'What are you _doing_ in here?' she yelled into the still air.

'I'm not in your rooms, Miss Burasque,' he replied irritably. 'Although I thought _you_ might not be either, given your brief fondness for the Ravenclaw dormitory, and despite our efforts at making this place acceptable. Our rooms are magically linked so that I may summon you if there is urgent work to be done. Now I advise you to get up. Breakfast begins in two minutes.'

'I'm up already!' Lace snapped. 'Now go away!'

He did not answer, and she realised he had closed the link.

She groaned. She had not reached her bed until past one last night, as His Highness had simply left her to finish her half of the poisons without even offering to help. And now, at seven in the morning, he expected her to be completely wide awake? _Typical_.

Quickly she slipped out of her cotton nightdress and threw some clothes on. A bath would have to wait. She paused briefly to grab her wand, discarded on the floor in her disgust, and then ran from the door.

It was only when she was hit by the noise as she entered the Great Hall that she remembered what he had said. _Lessons start today._

'Oh, help me,' she sighed, casting the plea into the vaults of the Hall in the hope that some faerie spirit would hear her.

'You'll find, Miss Burasque, that the students are more in need of help than you are,' a familiar voice said dryly.

She turned. 

He stood above her, by almost a head, and she was reminded how tall he really was. 'Not hungry?' he sneered.

Her mouth twisted in dislike. 'I was just going in, thank you.' As she went further into the Hall, she could see a few students watching her with curious faces. A few she recognised – some had watched her last night, when she sat unintroduced - and gave them a tight smile as she walked to her seat, Snape close behind.

'Lace,' Dumbledore greeted her. 'Looking forward to lessons?'

She grinned. 'Actually, Albus, I'm scared out of my life …' When she reached across the table for a slice of toast, she caught Snape scowling at her, and flashed him a debonair smile. Well, she was scared of the students. Not him.

Lace's breakfast finished fast, mainly because she was too nervous to eat very much, but just as she was creeping from the room, Dumbledore stood and raised his hand for silence. 'We have,' he announced, 'an addition to our teaching staff.'

Her heart sank, and she attempted to flee unnoticed but was stopped abruptly when she saw all eyes were on her.

'Miss Lace Burasque, whom no doubt some of you recognise, since she was a student here a few years ago, will be assisting Professor Snape in his duties as Potions Master. You will treat her, if you please, with the same respect you show to Professor Snape.'

Lace nodded to the whole school, and heard them muttering in puzzled voices. A smile flickered across her mouth as she imagined what they were saying. '_I'm sure Snape _loves_ the idea of having an assistant …' 'I doubt _she_ was too pleased about it either …' 'I hope it's treat her with the same respect, just much less fear …'_ Her heart swelled. They were on her side.

In the dungeons, though, her newfound courage thinned and dissipated when she saw the rows of expectant faces. Second-years. Freshly disillusioned pupils hoping that she would spice up their Potions lessons.

She swallowed hard. Snape was not here yet, and she dreaded the disappointment they would feel when they discovered she had no power over him whatsoever. Potions would still be a time of terror.

There was a crash at the back of the room, and thirty heads whipped round to witness Professor Severus Snape slam the door and stride to his desk. He raked his eyes over them with evident glee. _Great,_ Lace thought gloomily, watching him from her seat at the front. _I'm going to be stuck with a tyrant by my side_.

'Now.' The word was formed with perfect distasteful sadism. 'Miss Burasque will be … assisting me with the exciting job of making sure you brats don't kill yourselves,' he growled. 'She knows a little about Potions, but if it's anything overly taxing, it might be as well to ask me.' He shot her a withering glance to quell any objections she might have to his statement.

Lace simply stared at him in shock. How could he so obviously insult her talents in front of a whole class of students? He might not like her very much, but she was still a member of staff, and he couldn't allow the students to think she was stupid. Was it even allowed for staff to wrestle for popularity? She suspected not.

The part she didn't want to admit was that his comment hurt her. A lot. She knew she wasn't stupid. _He_ even knew she wasn't stupid, or he surely wouldn't tolerate her handling his beloved potions. So why was he even bothering?

He was talking again. Ordering the students to take out their books, snarling at those who hadn't been able to obtain them, snatching house points often. They were Ravenclaws, some of them, _her_ old house, and she couldn't let them be oppressed this way. Every single student in Ravenclaw was intelligent. Some, perhaps, were not particularly nice – there had been a few in her year she had thought worthy of Slytherin – but they _were_ extremely clever, and ought to be treated as such. _As should I,_ she added forcefully.

The lesson was a theoretical one, and so Lace did not have much to do, but she was transfixed, horrified at how cruel he could be. She knew he didn't _need_ to be that cruel; under some circumstances he was even bearable. But he seemed to be going out of his way to insult anything remotely unusual or even faultless.

And to make things worse, his insult towards her had not been the only one, as she had hoped. A student had been groping for an answer to one of Snape's complex problems, and he had turned towards her and said: 'I trust, Miss Burasque, that this student will understand the answer by next lesson. If you have the capability to _make_ him understand.'

_Oh, that I had the wind at my power._ She had nodded, emotionless, lips thin and concentrating on the tolerance of the faeries, trying desperately to forgive him.

The next lesson was even worse. Sixth years, and Snape acted as if she were completely useless, unable to comprehend even basic distillation theory. The students gave her a few sympathetic looks, but obviously none had dared to protest.

By lunchtime, Lace hated him.

The afternoon turned out to be much the same. It did not seem to matter to Snape who he was teaching, what level of impossibility the work was. She was an accessory to him, a spectator. Watching and nothing else.

She went to bed that night feeling distinctly ruffled, and became even more so when she wondered if Snape intended to carry on like this for long. It seemed, unfortunately, that he did. The next day, he was exactly the same, if worse was possible. _What hospitality_.

Lace had her responses for this, although they consisted mostly of glaring at Snape whenever he looked at her and badmouthing him to the more sympathetic teachers, namely Lupin and Flitwick. Both men were rather amused by some of the names she called the Potions Master, and promised faithfully not to tell anyone, so it remained their private joke. The guilt she felt was minimal, and when Snape caught her eye he merely looked surprised, as if he had not expected her to fight back.

She soon paid for it in class. If she had still been at school Ravenclaw would have been into minus points.

This war between them continued, and since neither of them was willing to say anything about directly, it carried on for a whole month. Every time Snape spoke to her, he seemed to have constructed a new insult. Lace in the end decided that he sat up at night writing them down and arranging them, and twitched a smile whenever he delivered a particularly eloquent rebuke. 

The whole thing was wearing her down, however, and Lace began to enjoy less and less the looks she earned from the students in the corridors. Sympathy was not so upsetting, but many evidently were wondering why she did not fight back, and there were a few raised eyebrows – _You're pathetic, just get out of here!_

It was coming to a tension. 

*****

The morning was particularly chilled on the Monday of one of the last weeks of term, and the wind did not clear her head as it had. Lace could feel faintly the snappy heat emanating from the dungeons. _Ah._ She was on the verge of deciding not to go down, and then she reminded herself that she was simply frightened. _Fear is for the weak, Lace._

She was right, though, and silently she thanked nature for preparing her. Snape was in such a temper that the students were afraid to even breathe too deeply. The lessons were admittedly slightly more gripping with the continual fear of being suddenly poisoned, but nobody could hide their relief when they were dismissed. Snape deducted house points constantly, and lunch seemed like a blissful pre-death feast.

The afternoon was spent watching the long, carefully carved hand on the clock drag its way through the numbers. She was doggedly nodding off Snape's insults, but her mind was beginning to glaze over with the sheer misery of it all. Nature was always right, she decided. _If I get out of here alive, I'll become a Druid-hermit. No company but nature._

Her eyes began to smoulder at Snape, and her anger slowly, creeping, grew. 

When the class was finally dismissed, and the students had fled, Lace seized her things in ecstasy and made to follow them, but Snape's voice held her back. 'Miss Burasque.'

She closed her eyes briefly, and counted to three before she faced him. 'What now?'

He searched her face with his eyes, and nodded briefly, curtly. 'I will expect you back in half an hour. We have to prepare some antidotes for tomorrow's lessons. You may leave.'

Lace snapped. 'Oh, _may_ I?' she yelled. 'Well, I'll tell you something, Professor Severus Snape, you can piss off!'

Then she clapped her hands over her mouth, astonished that she had had the courage to say such a thing.

Snape looked unaffected by her sentiment, did not even seem surprised. 'You chose this job, Miss Burasque. It comes with the territory. It's your problem if you don't like it.'

His calmness infuriated her even more. 'Actually, Snape, it's _your_ problem, because guess what: you don't have an assistant any more! I'm leaving.' She spun and made for the door, not bothering to hide back the tears that were beginning to escape from her eyes, not thinking about the shock of making such a huge decision.

'I'm disappointed in you, Miss Burasque,' she heard him call after her. 'I expected you to go with a little more style than "I'm leaving."'

Lace's mind went into overdrive, and she turned back again and hurled at him all the foul words she could think of, letting the tears between her teeth so she could spit them at him. It was only when she began to repeat herself that she rounded off, and hissed fiercely: 'And one more thing, _Severus_. Wash your hair.'

*****

A/N: How dare she say things like that to my Severus?? Hee hee, I suppose we'll have to see in the next chapter. Please review!!!


	5. Leaving?

POISON ON MY PILLOW

Chapter 5

Severus stood, mildly speculative, after she had left. He lifted a hand and ran it over his face briefly, and then suddenly it flickered to his arm as he fell, writhing, to the ground.

*****

Half an hour later he was standing in front of Dumbledore, hand still pressed carefully to his left arm. 'I – I've been called, sir.'

Dumbledore's eyes became serious. He regarded Severus steadily. 'Are you going?'

Severus sighed. 'Oh, God knows. I should, really. He's getting suspicious. Wondering why it is that we counter his every move.' He let out a breath in cynical amusement.

'How long for?'

'A few days, probably,' Severus admitted. 'It's been hurting for a while now.'

'But it was only one at the beginning of term!' Dumbledore protested. 'Doesn't he realise he could get you "caught"?'

Severus narrowed his eyes, and then they widened suddenly. '_That's_ what he's doing.'

'I'm sorry?'

'He's laying me a trap. If I come for a few days without protest, he will suspect something because it is unlikely that I would be able to gain that much time away. But if I do not go, he will think my loyalty is wavering.' Severus laughed shortly and without humour. 'I can't win, really.'

Dumbledore looked at him softly. 'What do you want to do?'

'I think I should go, Albus,' Severus replied grimly. 'I can say that I made a fantastic excuse to you. I need to see what he wants, anyway. At least I shall know where I stand.'

The Headmaster nodded. 'I see … well, do what you think best, Severus. You know him better than I.'

'Thank you, sir.' Severus stood up and made to leave.

'How's Lace getting on, by the way?' Dumbledore asked suddenly.

A faint tinge of red crept across Severus' face. 'Well, sir, she … she's just resigned. It seems she is not too happy about the way I manage my lessons.'

'Severus …' It was a warning. 'What have you been saying to her?'

The Potions Master looked slightly put out. 'Albus, she has been badmouthing me all term, to Lupin and that pixie teacher of yours. I found it only fitting that she should understand the consequences. But she has apparently taken it as a declaration of war.'

'And may I ask who _started_ this war?'

'Perhaps, Albus,' Snape said calmly and without embarrassment, 'I have been pushing her. I need to see what she is made of.'

'Why?'

Severus approached the desk and leaned forward, his raven hair hanging ominously. 'I have suspicions that Lace Burasque's life could become dangerous. Very dangerous. And very soon.' Without another word he strode from the office.

*****

Outside the moon was rising under the wind as Lace stuffed her robes into her trunk with tears as the accompaniment. She was leaving. There was no question; there was no possibility she could stay now.

She tore another robe from its hanger and cursed as she heard it rip. 'Bloody things!' Her nose wrinkled as she felt a sob seize her throat. 'Oh, for God's sake …'

The bastard. _Who would have thought it, Lace? You get through the whole seven years safely, and then you lose your mother and go to pieces …_

Lace stood up slowly, a hand resting on the lid of the trunk as her body convulsed suddenly in grief. 'Mum …'

As the anguished cry ripped from her body, a long-fingered hand rapped on the door. 'Miss Burasque? May I come in?'

'Get out!' she screamed back, hatred swirling. 'Leave me alone!'

'Miss Burasque … I need to talk to you briefly. I'm leaving.'

She brought a hand to her throat to restrict it. 'Leaving, Professor?'

'Yes … can I _please_ come in? I need to explain.'

Lace crept towards the door and jerked the handle as if it were hot metal. When she took in the tall, dark figure she drew breath slightly. 'Leaving?'

He smiled bitterly down at her. 'Only for a few days. I'm coming back. But perhaps … I was relying on you to take care of things while I'm away.'

A dozen questions and a blistering response presented themselves before Lace's mind, but she chose quickly, brushing the tears from her cheek. 'I'm afraid you'll have to find someone else. I was serious, Professor. I'm leaving … and I'm _not_ coming back.'

'Where are you going?' His tone was slightly amused.

She spun and went back towards her trunk to hide her indecision. 'Anywhere,' she replied shortly. 'Anywhere away from _you_.'

Lace heard him gasp, but was not sure exactly why. 

'Am I really that bad, Miss Burasque?'

She faced him, honest eyes meeting dark, masked ones. 'Yes, you are,' she said quietly.

Snape sighed silently. 'Perhaps I have been a little harsh. I … I am not used to working closely with anyone. I think this is why I have been rejecting your ability.' He closed his eyes for a second, obviously humiliated.

Lace simply stared at him. 'Why are you saying this?'

He swallowed, white throat pressing in. 'Look, neither Dumbledore nor I … really want you to go. And I want you to assume a little responsibility while I'm away. So that perhaps we can arrange things a little differently when I return …'

She could tell it had cost him mountains to say it, and so she nodded softly. In a way she was relieved; she did not want to leave either. Hogwarts seemed the right place for her, so very comforting, even without her wand. She loved being here with Dumbledore and Hooch and Lupin and Flitwick – even if she did have to put up with Snape …

And if he really _did_ intend to change things … perhaps she could learn. 'I'll stay, then. But we'll see.'

'Tha – good.' His eyes dodged a little.

Had it been a thank you?

The gloom settled back into Snape's dark eyes. 'I'll go, then. I shall probably be back on Thursday at the latest.' His voice was hard again.

Lace met his eyes without fear, still angry at his behaviour but curious about this change. 'Until Thursday.'

He nodded, and shot a glance around the room before he left quietly.

*****

Lace had been sitting on her bed a full hour after Snape had come to see her when her eyes strayed to the window for movement. A dark, cloaked figure on a lean broom floated across the grounds, strangely reluctant and timid in its direction. Then suddenly the rider bent low, and the broom shot into the darkness.

_Snape has left the building._

*****

The lessons the next day were Lace's first burst of freedom. She had not planned them, but found Snape's notes and worked around them whilst trying to make the lesson a little more interesting. Devising some games over breakfast proved easier than she had expected, since Dumbledore, Lupin and Flitwick, as well as Hooch, were eager to help her. Suddenly Lace began to feel accepted, not just an ex-student who had arrived from nowhere and needed sympathy. She really could live another life.

The newly reformed lessons went down extremely well, and Lace's first batch of students left laughing and talking happily. She sighed with relief. Possibilities as a teacher might open up. And it proved that she was a more interesting person than Snape, anyway.

She hardly thought about Snape at all for the first day, mostly because she was so busy, but when she finally collapsed into bed, ready to sleep, she found that he suddenly insisted on sticking in her head. She sat up again and groaned. Damn him.

Still, she supposed she had been meaning to consider him. 

He had changed. Something about him had changed.

Between the argument down in the dungeons, between his relentless insults, and perhaps an hour later, he had changed so suddenly and so drastically that Lace was beginning to suspect foul play. There was an endless list of questions she wanted to ask, and have answered.

For a start, where had he gone? Was it the same place he had gone at the beginning of the school year? Why did he go, and why was it so urgent?

Why had he been treating her so harshly? Was he testing her? If so, why? And what had provoked the sudden change? Did it have anything to do with where he was going now?

Finally, there was the continual wondering about the identity of her father, and the suspicions she had felt about Snape, and when Dumbledore had steered the conversation away from the subject. Last time it had been brought up was when Snape had gone away the first time, and Lace felt absolutely certain that there was a connection.

And his eyes, when he had asked her to stay … yes, there had been a mask, but it was inevitable with a man like Snape. What Lace wanted to know was what softness was doing lurking behind it. 

_The cold rod of doubt is poking me in the ribs._

_Come on Lace, ask the question, you can do it, you're strong enough._

_Fine. _

_Ask it._

She squared her shoulders in bed.

_Is Snape my father?_

It would make sense, she knew. He could be the right age. He was about forty, surely. Certainly old enough to father a child to her mother, who had only been Lace's age when she had given birth.

It was possible.

_You don't look anything like him, Lace._

But she looked like her mother instead.

_You're not a Slytherin._

But her mother had been instead.

Lace felt a little hard done by that there was no clue in her appearance to her relations. She was almost a clone of her mother – soft brown eyes that hardened to mahogany when she was angry, dark blonde hair and pale skin. A slender figure. Fine features. Pretty, perhaps. But not helpful.

She turned to the window slightly. _Frances Burasque, wherever you are … Mum … please help me._

The chill wind rumbled into thunder, a low hiss of breeze and a voice … _that_ voice, which had been in her room! 'I am your father … claim your inheritance, Lace … you know who I am …'

Then it faded.

Lace grabbed her substitute wand from the table, and her heart leapt when it fitted into her hand, relief that it was still here. She let out a frustrated moan, which rose into a chilling, wild wail. 'Tell me!' 

Then she fell across the bed and beat herself on the chest, the legs, the forehead, helpless and almost in tears. 'Just tell me …'

*****

What are we thinking? Rewiews, please?


	6. Not so soon

A/N: I know this has taken a long time, but I've had mock exams, and the teachers are really shoving work into our hands and saying 'let's have a test every week and do loads of work coz then we'll all get wonderful marks in the real things, eh?' Grrr ….. 

Anyway, it's short. I warn you now.

*****

POISON ON MY PILLOW 

**Chapter 6**

Lace's spirits were still low when she woke, lying across her bed and with the wind chilling her face. 'Oh, perfect …' Shivering, she rose, pulling her robes about her, and leapt on the swinging window. _Wind … what does that mean?_

A yawn stretched her throat, and Lace, itching at her wrist, glanced at her watch and realised that it was six o'clock in the morning. And considering how late she had fallen asleep last night … no wonder she was a little tired.

_Right. Day number two without Snape._

She sighed, and brushed her hair behind her ear. And now she had an hour to wait until she was supposed to be up.

There was no point in going back to sleep, she knew. She would never wake up again. So she turned back to the window and pushed it gently open, letting the air fill her throat again and looking out onto the bleak, grey landscape that was early morning Hogwarts. It was December.

A cloud rolled above her head, and Lace craned her neck to follow its path among the grey stone turrets. They blended well, the rock and the stony cloud. _But what does that mean?_

Recently, Lace had begun to feel the tug of the Druid-spirits more strongly. Whenever she observed nature, she saw something that she knew was significant, but she never knew what it was. It was so frustrating that she wanted to scream in the isolation of the castle.

'_Especially at this time …'_

When she was in the midst of so much mystery?

Snape's voice carried on the breeze, and Lace knew she had to find out, knew she had to go outside. In fact … she furrowed her eyebrows, and realised that she had not been outside for weeks, not since the last Quidditch match. It was little wonder that she was feeling so drained.

_Right, then._

She strode almost aggressively to the cupboard and snatched out her broom. It was not an expert broom, only a Nimbus 800, but it suited her well. She hardly ever flew, anyway.

Throwing a heavy cloak around her shoulders, Lace soared into the periwinkle sky, and as she left the confines of the stone her heart eased. It was the stone, she decided. It hated her, hated the heat she had for nature.

After flinging a few loops into her breezy route, Lace began to fly as fast as was possible in a wide circle, increasing her distance from the castle with each circuit. It was a mental awakening, and she actually began to hum quietly. Her hair was knotted, tangled and wild behind her, and it was something she relished, the feeling that not everything was order, not with Lace Burasque.

She was looking forward to teaching today, though. It would be a reinforcement of her pleasant disposition as opposed to Snape's evil, cruel …

Suddenly her mind blocked the thought. 

Lace started on her broom. Had she tried to stop herself insulting him? Her mind was humming some replacement words at her, apologies and allowances: yes, he was strict, but he taught well, and he was a little ruthless … but who knew what he had experienced? His bad humour was probably a result of whatever was troubling him at the time … Lace knew that despite his faults, he was an intensely clever man, and she doubted that he would let a few silly students sour his emotions quite so much. No, perhaps there was something else.

With that, Lace came to a complete halt. Why had her opinion of Snape changed so much, so quickly? She didn't _like_ him now, exactly, but there was certainly a tremendous difference. The word that most provoked her truthfulness seemed to be 'respect' … _Lace, what was the gain in admitting that?_

But it was definitely the truth. Lace _did_ respect him, and she knew why: he had admitted fault. She knew she had been somewhat erratic at school, and sometimes she had pushed things a little too far, and it had been excruciating to admit she had been wrong. Ironically, Snape had been one of her worst victims … although she had never given into him. And now he was apologising to her … she smiled a little to herself as she teased the air.

There was a gasp behind her, and Lace's heart leapt at that harsh breath, spun her broom and nearly overbalanced and was sucked into the spiral of vertigo before she recovered herself and looked at the person who had so startled her.

It was Snape.

_Early_? 'Professor!' Lace breathed deeply for a few seconds, and then said to him carefully: 'You're back?' 

It was only then that she looked at him.

His face, normally sallow and sarcastic, was now pale and haunted, and withdrawn. His long fingers were gripping the wooden broom handle so tightly that the blood was drained from them and they were pure white. And his eyes … Lace had seen troubled expressions before, but Snape's was so anxious and nervous …

'Miss Burasque,' he greeted in a trembling voice. He met her eyes squarely and flinched. 'I – I hope you're … well?' His voice was quiet, innocently frightened.

'Yes …' Lace replied carefully. Perhaps this would be easier on the ground. 'Are you coming back to Hogwarts?'

He hesitated, and she could tell he was unsure. 'I … I suppose so … yes.'

She turned her broom, offering him company. 'Shall we?'

Snape nodded quietly, but still did not meet her eyes. Slowly he let his broom float down back towards the Hogwarts grounds, and Lace followed him curiously.

_What's wrong?_

Even the allowances she had let herself think earlier did not cover this disturbance.

_His bad humour was probably a result of whatever was troubling him at the time …_ so what was troubling him? It had to be something big … something that normally would not faze Snape.

She was not stupid, and so she guessed quickly that it concerned whatever had just happened to Snape, or wherever he had just been. But where _had_ he been? She suspected that he was not in a humour for confidences, and yet … her mind was screaming out to comfort him, but she could hardly offer him any support if she did not know what was wrong.

So she asked him. 'Professor?'

He turned to look at her, eyes of black ice and fire, a stormy oblivion. Lace had never seen a person so altered in such a short space of time. Snape looked almost as if he had died and returned … a ghost of the dungeons. Nature did not approve of him, and he knew it, for he glanced around helplessly as the wind tore at his skin.

_He's been flying all night_ … That would explain his exhaustion, then. But Lace was convinced that a tired person would not look quite so nervous and … almost terrified. _Mother Nature …_

'Are you all right?'

For a moment he regained some of his sardonic humour as his mouth twisted, and he muttered bitterly: 'Fine.' 

'I see …' Lace shrugged. There was nothing she could do if he did not want to tell her, and so she started to let her broom ease into a purposeful flow. Snape followed her reluctantly, and together they flew the last half a mile back to the castle grounds.

Once on the ground, Snape turned to her, suddenly tall again. 'I need to speak to Dumbledore,' he said hoarsely, flinched once more at her golden eyes, and strode away across the grass, stained cloak billowing feebly.

Lace watched him, considering. Then she shrugged again. There was no point in trying to work out this puzzle. It probably did not concern her anyway. It would be better left alone.

Then she saw her watch, and swore as she realised that everyone was at breakfast. She glanced at the bleak sky, and wondered what Nature had in store for Severus Snape.

*****

A/N: I know it's very short, but the next section will probably be rather longer, since the action is going to start happening now … we all know where Snape has been, but what's taken place between him and Voldemort? Has he discovered something? Find out this, and more, in the next exciting instalment! Wahey …

(Oh, and reviews would be nice, if you have a spare minute. Let me know if you think this fic isn't working out, since I'm not too sure about it myself.)


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